Obligation
by Resevius
Summary: Sometimes kindness comes from unexpected places. HBP HP&SS


Harry wasn't feeling well. He hadn't felt himself since his last lesson with Dumbledore, where he had learned about Tom Riddle's parents. Over and over, he remembered Merope's terrified expression when she dropped and broke her father's pot. He remembered the disgust in Marvolo Gaunt's face as he'd shouted at his daughter. He tried very hard not to think about what the scene had reminded him of.  
Still, it came as no surprise when he received detention from Snape on Monday for not paying attention.  
"Rotten luck, mate," said Ron, as he, Harry, and Hermione left the gloomy classroom. "Snape is such a greasy git!"  
Hermione made shushing noises at Ron, then turned to Harry. "Are you all right, Harry?" she asked, her brown eyes round. "You've looked pale all weekend."  
Harry shrugged. "Probably just a cold," he said. Hermione dropped it, but continued to watch Harry. She couldn't have known that at that moment, "useless lump" kept flitting through her friend's brain.  
When Harry arrived at Snape's dungeon that evening, it was to find a table laden with glass potion vials. Snape sat at his desk, greasy hair falling over a stack of papers. "Good evening, sir," said Harry quietly. Snape eyed him for a moment, appraising his pallad profile. Shrugging, he gestured to the vials. "Without magic, Potter. I trust you can be more attentive to these than you are to your classes, though I may be sparing you too much credit." Harry didn't answer, but picked up the cloth that Snape had provided and began to scrub the first vial.  
To his dismay, the task was more mindless than tedious, his thoughts returned to what he had seen in the Pensiev. "Useless lump". Harry's chest tightened. He felt such sympathy for Merope. Empathy, too. He knew how she had felt.  
Crash!  
Harry jumped. Then he felt the color drain from his face as he look down at the shards of glass shimmering at his feet. His shoulders hunched as he heard Professor Snape stand and slowly approach. He felt frozen.  
Snape walked toward Harry, eyes fixed on the broken vial. "Potter."  
Quickly, fearfully, Harry dropped to his knees, hunching over the glass as if to hide it. Snape's frown deepened as he watched the boy begin to scoop jagged shards into his palm. His sharp eyes took in the way Harry's hands trembled very slightly, and the way he kept his face hidden. The Potions Master drew his wand.  
"Reparo."  
Harry sat still as his mess righted itself.  
"Potter," said Snape again, but his pupil didn't move. Snape could just hear Harry's quickened breathing. Frowning, he put his wand away. "Potter, are you hurt?"  
At last, Harry looked up, and Snape had to fight to keep his face neutral. Harry's green eyes were huge and bright in his thin, pale face.  
"I'm sorry, sir," he said, the words audible only because the room was silent.  
"Are you hurt?" Snape repeated.  
Slowly, Harry held out his hand. A thin line of blood shown scarlet in the dim candlelight. Snape knealt so that he was face to face with Harry, and reached for the boy's hand. Harry flinched visibly, but allowed the older man to examine the wound. Carefully, Snape withdrew a small brown bottle from his robes and poured Ditiny on the cut. It healed instantly.  
"Thank you." Now Harry's words were choked. He looked back down, pretending to study his healed palm, but Snape, watching closely, saw a tear roll down his cheek.  
"Potter." To Snape's relief, his voice came out without its usual sourness. "What happened there?"  
"I broke a vial. I'm sorry."  
Snape frowned. "Funnily enough, I saw it with my own eyes, Potter. Why didn't you use magic?"  
Harry looked up. Snape could just see the tear stain on his cheek, but Harry looked confused. "I — forgot."  
Snape wanted to say so many sarcastic things. He yearned to shroud himself again in unpleasant snark. But he was unnerved.  
"It happens to everyone, Potter. Breaking equipment, that is. You've got to know how to respond."  
To Snape's bewilderment, Harry's shoulders hunched again. He looked down quickly.  
"Potter, look at me."  
With seemingly great effort, Harry raised his face. He swiped at the falling tears, trying to hide them. "Potter — Harry — what is this? You are acting worse than Longbottom."  
A very faint smile tugged at the corners of Harry's mouth. "No one," he said, "has ever said that to me."  
Snape raised an eyebrow. "Said what?"  
"That it happens to everyone."  
Snape stood up and swept back to his desk. "It does. And as I also said, you would do well to improve your response."  
Harry climbed to his feet, picking up the vial. Snape continued to watch him, puzzled. Where had this fear come from? With new eyes, Snape watched the care Harry took with each vial. He flinched every time his hand shook, threatening to lose grip again. It was painful to observe.  
Barely an hour into detention, Snape said, "Potter, that will do. You may go."  
Harry stared at his professor, dismayed. "Sir, I can finish," he said stubbornly.  
Snape fought his natural sarcasm once more. "I want you to go and get some rest. Here." Sape reached into his pocket and held out a small vial of purple potion. "It is a calming draft. I don't know what has happened to you, Potter, but you must take care of yourself."  
Harry shuffled to the teachers desk, and took the vial. He seemed to struggle a moment, then spoke. "The Dursleys. They never told me. Dropping things was just another thing that made me a — freak."  
Snape didn't like the pinprick to his heart. He didn't like the way his chest boiled with anger. He especially didn't like the kinship he felt to the boy in this moment. Apparently his mask slipped, because Harry turned away, hardening his own expression.  
"I'm sorry, sir," he muttered, resolutely picking up his bag. "I won't bother you anymore. Thank you for the draft."  
Snape watched The Boy Who Lived leave his classroom, feeling helpless and uncomfortable. Who knew he shared something in common with Snape? Did Dumbledore know? Surely the Headmaster would have done something if he knew. Then again, perhaps not.  
Snape made a derisive noise and briskly stood to clear the room. Last year, when he had seen the torments Potter had suffered at the handsof his relatives, he himself hadn't done anything. Why should things change now? He had said his piece, and Potter had thanked him. Life would go on. Snape would pretend he had never seen tears fall from Harry Potter's eyes. He would brush aside the revelations that the boy had made. And he would ignore the notion that he had done something helpful for the boy. It meant nothing to him. In their next Potions class, Snape would ignore the grateful look sent his way through bright green eyes. It was


End file.
